


Sulfur in the Blood

by DachOsmin



Category: Original Work
Genre: Aphrodisiacs, Asphyxiation, Banter, Bloodplay, Double Penetration, Humiliation, Leashes, M/M, Non-Consensual Drug Use, Other, Punishment, Revenge, Semi-Public Sex, Sibling Incest, Spitroasting, Suicidal Thoughts, Tentacles
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-04-20
Updated: 2017-04-20
Packaged: 2018-10-21 11:27:22
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,049
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10684362
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DachOsmin/pseuds/DachOsmin
Summary: Erik finds that fighting monsters helps keep his own demons at bay. Too bad the rest of his family doesn’t approve.





	Sulfur in the Blood

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Megan](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Megan/gifts).



Erik’s dreams have been getting worse since Samhain.

Not the nightmares, those he’s used to. Between his childhood and everything that’s happened since, he doesn’t think there’s a night he’s been free of them: the flame-limned eyes on his back and the cold slide of scales on his skin. Familiarity breeds contempt; after all this time there’s little in these dreams for him to fear, though he used to wake up screaming from them.

No, it’s the other ones he’s worried about. The ones where the monsters aren’t chasing him.

They’re the reason why he’s started staring at the glock on his bedside table more and more now. They’re the reason why the empty gin bottles have taken over all the flat space in his shitty apartment. They’re why, if he’s really being honest with himself, he doesn’t intend to come back from his latest demon hunt.

He still gives the planning his all; he’s been doing this too long to give any less than that. The guns are all cleaned and loaded in his bag, the knives’ edges tested, the entry points of the lair marked out in his memory.

Hell, at best he’ll take some of them out with him. That has to count for something, right?

***

Erik wakes in stages. The pain is first thing that hits him- the sharp agony of skin ripped to ribbons, the dull ache of bruised bones beneath it.

He cracks his eyes open, wincing at the sudden stab of light. He’s in a bed roughly the size of his kitchen, naked, swaddled in honest to god satin sheets. The wall in front of him is floor to ceiling glass, letting in the reds and yellows of a brilliant sunset. This isn’t his apartment; he couldn’t afford this in a million years. And it isn’t the demons’ lair, that’s for damn sure.

What happened? He had taken them by surprise, all according to the plan. But there had been more than he’d expected, dozens more. He’d thrown a Molotov and collapsed the tunnels behind him. He remembers shrieks. Screams and the scrape of talons on rock. Fire and the gleam of a million eyes in the blackness. Burning flesh and brimstone. His head spins with nausea and he clenches his eyes shut. He focuses on breathing through his nose, in, out.

He needs to get out of here. He tries to move, tries to push the blankets off him- but his arms are torpid and slow to respond, as if he’s underwater.

Erik’s heart rate spikes. Something is very, very wrong. He shouldn’t be this sick, not from a few cuts. There’s something in him, something in his system. He can taste it on the exhale, cloying and dark on his tongue. It’s the scent of rotting roses and it is terrible in its familiarity.

He struggles harder, harder-

“Evening, sleepyhead,” and oh fuck he knows that voice, oh fuck fuck fuck fuck. He should have let the demons kill him outright. He should have blown his brains out this morning in the shower when he had the chance.

His host saunters into view and perches himself on the side of the bed. He looks like a pre-Raphaelite angel, all smooth muscle and freckled skin. The blonde curls framing his face catch the last embers of the sunset, burnishing them a heady gold. He’s wearing jeans and a plain grey v-neck that probably cost three months’ rent at some trendy midtown boutique.

Erik swallows. He’s not afraid. He can’t be, or Ronnove will sense it like a fucking shark. “What the fuck are you doing here?” He considers it a small victory that the panic stays out of his voice.

Ronnove raises an angelic eyebrow. “No ‘thank you,’ of course. I could have left you with your new friends.”

“I wish you had.”

“You don’t mean that,” Ronnove says, rolling his eyes, and Erik almost wishes he could shoot himself right then and there and wipe that smug expression off the bastard’s face. “Mummy’s worried about you. She says you aren’t taking care of yourself.”

Erik looks behind him, scans the room for his weapons. Nothing. He tries to move his arms again. He gets a weak flutter in his fingers, but that’s it. God, but he’s got to get out of here. The demons were better than this. Anything would be better than this. He plasters a polite smile on his face in the meantime. “She’s still alive, then?”

Ronnove chuckles. “Oh yes, no thanks to you. She’s got a nice demesne in the seventh circle, real good view. You’d know if you called,” and maybe it’s the pain or whatever he’s been drugged with, but Erik could swear the reproach sounds almost genuine. “Your daddy’s keeping her company. Having a real nice time of it, he is.” And he winks, the bastard.

“You’re lying,” Erik bites out, and he hopes to god it sounds more sure to Ronnove’s ears than it does to his own.

“Am I? Is it so hard to believe that’s where his soul ended up?” Ronnove reaches in to ruffle his hair; try as he might Erik can’t pull his head away from the touch. “It’s almost like you’re projecting.”

“You aren’t getting my fucking soul-“

Ronnove blithely cuts him off with a wave of his hand. “As it happens, I’m not here for your soul. I’m here for mummy. She’s allowed this teenage rebellion of yours-“

“-I’m twenty-three, you _asshole_ -”

“-but she’s concerned that you don’t fully understand the ramifications of your actions.” Ronnove offers him a dimpled smile. “These little murder sprees are becoming inconvenient. She suggests you might be a little more considerate of the feelings of the rest of the family.”

God, why is he even dignifying this bullshit with a response? Oh right, because he’s immobilized in Ronnove’s fucking bed and talking is the least bad thing that’s going to happen tonight. “That lair’s killed a half dozen kids over the past month,” he finally says. “So, in words even you can understand: they started it.”

Ronnove makes an elaborate show of inspecting his nails. “But I say unto you, that ye resist not evil: but whosoever shall smite thee on thy right cheek, turn to him the other also.” His teeth gleam in the light of the dying sun. “Matthew 5:39.”

Erik sees red; he can’t help it. “Do not quote the fucking bible to me,” he snarls, “you piece of shit, I should have killed you when I had the chance-“

Ronnove pulls back at that, all wide and woeful eyes. “Erik, fratricide is _wrong.”_

That’s fucking rich, considering what’s coming. He closes his eyes and lets his head fall back against the pillow. “So’s raping your brother.”

An incredulous laugh at that. “Rape? This isn’t- really, Erik.” Ronnove leans over, reaching out to rub circles into Erik’s collarbone in a parody of affection. He bats his eyelashes a few times for effect. “Do you consent to a night of passion with me?”

And even though Erik knows exactly how this is going to go, even though he knows perfectly well where this path leads, he can’t help it. He never can when it comes to Ronnove. He spits in Ronnove’s face with all the strength he can muster. “Burn in hell, you piece of shit.”

The spit catches Ronnove on the left cheek, marring the perfect symmetry of his face. He doesn’t react for a second. And then something slips: whatever façade it is he puts on slides off like rain on a windowpane, and Erik is left looking at a face utterly devoid of mercy, of anything approaching humanity. It’s like looking in a mirror on his worst days.

But the change doesn’t stop there. The air is suddenly swimming with brimstone, and through the haze Erik can just make out Ronnove’s shifting form: his teeth are longer, his skin shinier, and below the bend of his torso-

Ronnove surges forward before the shift is complete, pinning Erik onto the bed with a forearm over his throat. “Someone needs to teach you some manners, little one,” he murmurs into Erik’s ear while he’s gasping for air. And then his other hand is twisting in Erik’s hair and wrenching his head back, and his lips are burning against Erik’s mouth.

The kiss is violent: an act of war, not love. Ronnove pries Erik’s lips open, licks into his mouth like he’s claiming it for himself. It’s all Erik can do to suck in tiny bits of air through his nose. There are black spots on the edges of his vision and he sends up a silent prayer to whoever’s listening that he passes out now and doesn’t have to be here for whatever Ronnove is planning on doing next.

Ronnove pulls back to lick a stripe of saliva down Erik’s cheek. “None of that, sweetheart. I want you here for this. I want you to feel it in your bones. I want you to revel in how much you love it.”

“I don’t- I don’t want this-“ he manages to gasp.

Ronnove considers him with a cocked eyebrow. “Oh, you want to want it? You should have said so.”

And before Erik can protest, can plead that that’s not what he meant, Ronnove is swallowing his words in another kiss. Beneath the torrent of sensation he can feel something else, something slipping beneath the blankets, something sliding over his naked skin and curling in the dip of his sternum. It rests there for a moment and Erik dares to hope that this is just a warning; Ronnove won’t use it on him, won’t make him want it-

The stinger slips under his skin a second later.

The pain is immediate: a starburst of agony in his chest, radiating outwards with excruciating slowness. He screams as his muscles seize up, each one twitching and shuddering as the venom pumps into him. It’s scalding against the inside of his veins, burning its way through him inch by inch until he can feel it in the back of his throat, in the pit of his stomach, in the soft flesh beneath his fingernails.

He’s distantly aware that Ronnove is murmuring nonsense against his cheek as he shudders through wave after wave of pain. “It’s all right, dear one, let it go, let it happen, just like that…”

“Let me go,” he grits out, and damn it, he wanted to say it like a threat, not a plea.

Ronnove chuckles, tongue darting out to lick the shell of his ear. “But we’re just getting started.”

Something’s sliding around on the edge of his vision, and for a second Erik can’t breathe with fear; he can’t handle another dose of venom in his body. “It’s been a while,” Ronnove says, “I wouldn’t want you to forget.” Erik turns to face him, some bit of smart mouthed cursing already on the tip of his tongue – and almost throws up when he sees Ronnove. His whole lower half has shifted. He can’t see any legs or feet, just a seething mass of tentacles. Each one acts like it has a mind of its own: they’re writhing against each other, drifting to feel at the furniture, at the floor, at Erik. They’re disgusting and vile and wrong, and Erik can’t look away.

One of the tentacles separates from the rest. It’s almost curious as it undulates up to him, and Erik has no idea if Ronnove’s directing it or not. It feels wet and alien against his skin as it writhes over his biceps, creeping up, up, up, to rest against his neck. And then it’s wrapping itself around his neck like a leash, just too tight to make breathing easy. He struggles to swallow; he can feel the muscles of the tentacle flex against his airway with each shift of his body. He stays as still as he can, maybe if he just stays still-

Ronnove hums and leans closer; yanking on Erik’s leash and pulling him into another kiss. Erik keeps his lips firmly shut, until the leash tightens in warning and he opens up with a gasp for Ronnove’s tongue. It plunders his mouth, twists around his teeth and forces his jaw open, inch by inch.

“You were made for this,” Ronnove purrs. He bites down hard on Erik’s lower lip, splitting the skin and smearing the blood over his mouth like red lipstick, whorish and obscene. “I can tell you’re gagging for more.”

Erik struggles as best he can, but the tentacle around his neck tightens in warning, and it’s all he can do to keep drawing gasps of air through his nose. He focuses on the rhythm: in out, in, out. Anything to avoid panicking, anything to avoid breaking down.

Ronnove slides his tongue along Erik’s lower lip, pressing into the cut, smearing the blood over his chin and cheek. “I can taste me in you. And mother, and your daddy too. Oh yes, I’ve had him; Mummy’s generous with her favors-“

“Fuck you,” he manages to gasp.

“It wasn’t rape. He wanted it. Begged for it, even. Just like you will.”

And the worst thing is, Erik knows he’s right. The pain of the venom is beginning to fade. He feels his body begin to respond to the compounds in the poison; lust unfurls unbidden in his stomach like a dark flower. There’s a tightness in his skin, and his cock is starting to swell. He can’t help the tiny abortive jerk he makes, pushing up into the empty air. His body’s betraying him, and there’s nothing he can do to stop it.

Ronnove is standing up, and Erik is being yanked up as well, dragged in his wake.

He can suddenly move his hands and legs again, although he knows better than to feel good about it. Ronnove’s letting him fight back. Ronnove likes it when he struggles. And as much as he wishes he could just go limp and let the tentacle choke him into unconsciousness, he can’t help it. He’s thrashing like a wild animal in a trap, clawing at the tentacle around his neck, kicking at the ones massing around his legs, and- nothing. It’s like kicking a cement wall. He doesn’t know if they can even feel it.

Ronnove drags him to the window. The tentacle around his neck loosens just enough that he can suck in a gasp of air, and then he’s being picked up and slammed against the glass. It’s cold against his naked skin; he feels utterly exposed: naked and trapped between the window and the seething mass of tentacles behind him. One of them reaches up to caress his cheek. “Anyone could see you, darling,” Ronnove whispers behind him. “But you’d like that, wouldn’t you?”

He wants to snarl, spit, anything- but his cheek is jammed hard against the glass and he can’t get the words out. He’s helpless to do anything but wait, heart beating in his throat as he feels the tentacles touch him, caress him.

The two thickest ones slither over the small of his back, each wrapping around one of his legs. He bucks against them, lashing out kicks blindly. But they tighten inch by inch, until he can only make little abortive jerks from side to side, panting as he hangs limp in the cradled vise of the tentacles.

They start to pull his legs apart, slow enough that he can almost fight it, can trick himself into thinking that it’s a fight he could ever win. It isn’t- he knows that; he’s seen Ronnove rip a man’s torso in half without breaking a sweat. But Ronnove wants him to struggle, wants to watch the fight leech out of him and Erik, god fucking damn it, can’t help but play along. He yells, trying to keep his knees touching. But they’re forced apart, one foot between them and then two, until he’s posed in an obscene split just shy of painful. His cock and balls hang between his legs, utterly exposed.

Something slithers up the underside of his hardening cock. He freezes. He doesn’t think Ronnove would maim him but oh, he could. It would be easy, an afterthought. “Ronnove…”

“Shhh, love. Just relax.”

But he can’t relax, because the tentacle is skimming over the surface of his balls, playing at the rim of his hole, and finally, slipping in. It’s narrow at the tip: he can barely feel it at first. But it gets thicker and thicker as it worms its way in, until it’s filling him up, his rim taut against it. He tries to squirm away from the intrusion but there’s nowhere to go; he’s trapped, helpless to do anything but take it.

As he adjusts to the tentacle in his ass, he realizes there’s another one twining up the windowpane. It darts against his lips like it’s tasting him, and before he can react it’s pushing forward. He chokes on it, gagging as it fills his mouth and stretches his jaw. There’s tears in his eyes and he can’t help it: he’s crying, the tears mixing with the saliva dripping down his chin to smear against the glass of the window.

Ronnove lets out a heady chuckle. “Oh, but they would love you in hell. They would go mad for a taste.”

He can’t protest; between the tentacle in his mouth and the one in his ass, there’s no way he can move without fucking himself on either one. His head feels fuzzy, his limbs are heavy and languid in Ronnove’s embrace. Ronnove chuckles, and the tentacle in his ass bucks forward in a slow, lazy thrust.

He whimpers around the tentacle in his mouth as his hips stutter in response, and hates himself for it.

Ronnove sighs dreamily. “So responsive. I could whore you out, just like this. And you’d come to love it, beg for it. You wouldn’t feel whole without at least three cocks fucking into you on both ends.”

He tries to shake his head but between the tentacle in his mouth and the one around his neck, there’s nothing he can do.

Ronnove laughs, bites into the skin of his neck hard enough to break the skin. “Why, I bet you’d take all comers in the middle of mummy’s halls like the shameless little cockslut you are. Drink their seed until your belly bulged with it, and you’d love every minute of it.”

And with that, the tentacles begin to fuck him in earnest. They coordinate their rhythm, pumping in and out of his mouth and ass in tandem. They feel like they’re swelling with each thrust, until they’re filling every part of him, pressing up against every sensitive space inside of him and lighting up his nerves like a Christmas tree.

His body betrays him: his cock begins to twitch in time with their thrusts and his hips buck up to meet each thrust. God, but it’s torture: too much and not enough all at once.

Another tendril is pressing against the taut skin of his hole and it’s too much; there’s no way it will fit. But it doesn’t care; it worms against his rim like it’s looking for a way in, and if it can’t find one, it will make one. It shoves its way in and he screams around the tentacle in his mouth, but the sound is stoppered within him. Distantly can tell he’s sobbing.

Ronnove is muttering filth in his ear but he can’t understand it; the words are flowing over him like waves high above his head. Speech is so far beyond him right now: everything has narrowed to the pounding in his ass and his throat. He can feel the telltale slick of blood, hear the sick slickness of it dripping down the inside of his thighs.

A third tentacle rams its way into his ass and he screams, eyes rolling back in his head. God, the pain. His body is a shredded mess of agony; it’s like he’s been torn apart from the inside out. He wants to black out, to die- anything to take him out of this, anything to stop him from feeling. But his own dark blood won’t let him, is even now reacting to Ronnove’s words and touches with nothing but approval. And the venom in his blood is going even further, making him crave every touch even as he shudders from the pain. If he could beg, would it be for Ronnove to stop, or split him open even further?

Ronnove is gasping behind him, tongue flicking in to lick at his blood an tears. “You perfect mongrel. A human would have died by now. A demon would enjoy it. Oh my darling, brother, brother-”

The tentacles begin to twitch and pulse, speeding up and losing their rhythm. As the pounding reaches a climax he can feel spurts of hot liquid in his gut and down his gullet, filling him up until he’s bulging from it.

He blacks out, and at this point it’s a mercy.

He comes to a second later. Ronnove is making shushing noises, petting at his sweat soaked hair, licking away the mess of tears and snot coating his face.

His voice is a languid lilt in Erik’s ears. “You did so well for me, little one. I would never share you, I promise: you’re meant to be bred by me alone; I’d breed you on mother’s throne hell would fall before us. That’s all I’ve wanted, you at my side, pregnant with my children.”

The tentacles begin to retreat, and when the last tentacle slips from Erik’s mouth to caress his bruised and bloodied lips, it’s all he can do to babble words against the window. “Please- please, Ronnove-“

The voice in his ear becomes a purr, the hands in his hair a caress.  “What do you need, pet?”

Even painted with blood, his cock is so hard it’s painful and he needs it, he needs- “I need the venom” he gasps, “I need it-“

“Anything for you, brother dearest.”

The stinger is stabbing him again, this time in the flesh of his thigh, and it’s finally enough to tip him over, drown out the pain and sink him in the shivering pleasure of the venom. He’s floating, gasping, shuddering, and then there’s a tentacle jacking his cock and even with the venom it hurts. Some distant part of him knows it’ll be chafed raw tomorrow, but he doesn’t care, he needs it, he needs Ronnove-

The orgasm rips through him, cum smearing against the glass of the window as it tears a hoarse scream from his lungs.

“Just like that,” Ronnove murmurs, jerking him through the aftershocks, kissing Erik as he shakes like a marionette in his arms. “Just like that, you beautiful mess.”

***

This is how Ronnove leaves him: a mess of blood and semen slumped against the glass, staring up at the ceiling. Ronnove walks to the door with a spring in his step, and with each stride the tentacles become harder to see until he’s just some pretty blond again, save for a bit of Erik’s blood still clinging to his lips.

Erik watches dully as Ronnove licks it up, until even that trace of him has been stolen away. Ronnove hums to himself as he plucks a shirt and sweats out of his closet and pulls them on. And then he’s headed towards the door, ready to go just like that, as if he isn’t leaving Erik in pieces behind him.

Ronnove looks over his head one last time as he turns the doorknob. “As much as I love these visits, do try to keep out of trouble. It’s disruptive to come up here so often.”

“I’m going to kill you,” Erick manages to say, each word tearing at his throat like glass shards as he forces them out.

Ronnove pauses in the doorway. He looks perfect, skin dewy, not a hair out of place. “You said that last time too,” he says with a terrible gentleness. “And you’ll say it next time, and the time after that, and after that. Until you stop pretending, and you finally come home.”

**Author's Note:**

> Hope you enjoyed this little treat!
> 
> Many thanks to my lovely beta, Airotkiv.


End file.
